Chapter 1: Ashes of the Leaf
The last thing he remembered was the horn blaring. Blinding headlights. The jolt of impact. Then—
Darkness.
No tunnel of light. No flash of memories. Just the sudden, suffocating pressure of being again.
He gasped, sucking in thick, acrid air that clawed at his throat. Mud clung to his face, slick and cold, and his chest ached like it had been kicked in. Rain pelted his back in steady sheets, mixing with the warm copper tang of something wet on his temple.
Disoriented, he pushed himself upright, trembling arms sinking into the wet earth. His heart thundered in his ears—until the sound of shouting snapped everything into horrifying clarity.
Voices. Screams. Explosions.
A blast rocked the ground nearby, sending a tremor through the soil. Smoke curled skyward in plumes, lit by the glow of distant fire. Men and women darted between trees, blurs of movement in the downpour, some hurling kunai, others weaving hand signs at breakneck speed. One of them vanished with a puff of smoke. Another screamed as a wind blade tore through their side.
He blinked, hard. No way.
Was this… cosplay? A dream? A VR simulation?
No.
That was a real kunai buried in the dirt three feet from his face.
His body moved before his mind caught up—scrambling backward, breath catching in panic. He caught his reflection in a puddle and froze.
A boy stared back at him.
Not the face he remembered. Not even close. This one was younger—maybe thirteen or fourteen—pale, with unkempt black hair plastered to his forehead and dull gray eyes wide with terror. His clothes were ragged, stained with dirt and blood. His hands were smaller. Thinner.
Whose body is this?
The shouting grew louder. A Leaf shinobi—flak jacket, Konoha headband gleaming—skidded to a halt nearby, chest heaving. He looked young, maybe mid-twenties, face streaked with rain and ash. His eyes locked onto the boy.
"You!" he barked. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
The boy—Ren, his mind supplied, though he wasn't sure where the name came from—stumbled to his feet. "I—I don't know."
The ninja swore under his breath and rushed forward, grabbing Ren by the arm. "Where's your squad? Are you with the supply corps? Medic unit?"
"I don't know," Ren repeated, more urgently now. "I don't remember."
The shinobi's eyes narrowed. He scanned him again—then something in his expression softened. "Damn it. You're just a kid."
Ren flinched as another explosion cracked through the forest, closer this time. The ninja glanced over his shoulder, jaw tightening.
"No time for this. Come on." He pulled Ren behind a shattered tree trunk and crouched low. "Name?"
The boy hesitated.
He couldn't say his real name—it didn't fit in this world. And he sure as hell wasn't going to pretend he remembered whoever used to own this body.
"…Ren," he said at last.
"Alright, Ren." The shinobi peeked over the log. "You follow me, you do exactly what I say, and maybe we'll both live long enough to ask questions later."
Ren nodded dumbly.
They moved through the battlefield like shadows, ducking between the cover of trees and smoldering debris. Ren kept his head low, legs burning from the effort. The shinobi moved like water—quick, efficient, silent. Ren, by contrast, stumbled over roots and nearly tripped on a discarded katana. The rain made everything slick and disorienting.
They passed bodies.
Some with hitai-ate of Konoha. Others not.
Ren tried not to look.
By the time they reached a Leaf outpost—little more than a cluster of tents and a trench perimeter—his limbs were shaking. The shinobi waved him through the guards with a wordless nod, then dragged him into a medical tent that stank of antiseptic and blood.
"Found him wandering the front line," the man told the medic. "Claims he doesn't remember anything. No visible wounds."
The medic gave Ren a quick once-over, brow furrowed. "War orphan?"
"Maybe. Or got separated from his squad and took a hit to the head. No dog tags. No forehead protector."
The medic sighed. "We'll put him in the civvy tent. Keep an eye on him. We don't need another spy situation."
Ren wanted to speak—wanted to say something that would make them believe him. But what could he say? Hey, I'm actually from another universe where your entire world is just a show I watched in high school? Yeah. That'd go over well.
So he kept quiet. Watched. Listened.
They gave him a blanket and a bowl of bland stew. The tent was filled with a dozen other orphans, some sniffling, others silent. War didn't spare anyone.
Ren sat in a corner, stew untouched, eyes fixed on the flickering lantern.
This is real. This is happening.
His hands clenched the blanket tighter.
He knew this world. Knew its stories, its tragedies. He knew about the war—the Third Great Ninja War, the bloodbath that claimed thousands. He knew names. Faces. Fates.
Minato Namikaze was fighting out there, somewhere, earning the name "Yellow Flash."
Sakumo Hatake had recently fallen—driven to suicide by disgrace.
Kakashi was still just a kid, cold and ruthless from grief.
And soon… Obito would "die." Rin would be taken. Everything would spiral.
Ren shivered.
He didn't know how he got here. He didn't know why this body, or why now. But one thing was clear.
This wasn't a game.
There were no save points. No chakra cheat codes. Just a boy with a head full of spoilers and no idea how to use them.
And yet…
Knowledge is power.
He couldn't wield a kunai. Couldn't mold chakra—yet. But he knew the timeline. He knew events, alliances, betrayals. He knew which clans would fall, which would rise. Which jutsu were forbidden. Where relics were hidden.
That gave him something even the strongest ninja feared:
An edge.
Ren exhaled slowly. Okay, he thought. First, survive. Then… learn.
He looked around the tent, at the other orphans. Kids like him. Victims of a war they didn't start.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a soldier.
But maybe—just maybe—he could be something more.
---
The rain hadn't stopped.
It was softer now—just a light drizzle tapping against the tent's canvas roof—but it carried the same coldness that soaked into bones and lingered in thoughts.
Ren sat near the edge of the orphan tent, arms wrapped around his knees, blanket draped over his shoulders like a second skin. Around him, half a dozen other kids lay huddled together, murmuring or asleep. The air inside was heavy: with damp breath, with silence, with the kind of stillness that only war created.
He hadn't spoken to anyone since they brought him here. Not that anyone seemed to notice. The other orphans were used to silence. Used to ghosts sitting in the corners of tents.
He was learning how to watch without staring. How to mimic the blank expressions. How to breathe like he belonged here.
What kind of person was Ren?
It nagged at him. Every time he moved, every time someone glanced at him and looked away. He wasn't sure if he was passing or failing—just that he was constantly guessing.
Then the tent flap rustled.
Ren barely lifted his head. The boy who entered looked to be around his age, maybe fourteen. Wet hair stuck to his forehead. Bruises marked the side of his jaw. His Leaf uniform was too big in the sleeves, clearly secondhand.
But what stood out most were his eyes. Alert. Focused. Like he saw too much and trusted too little.
The boy scanned the tent once—and stopped when his gaze landed on Ren.
He froze.
Ren tensed automatically.
"...Ren?"
It was said like a breath. Like a question. Like a wound reopening.
The boy took two steps forward, then crouched in front of him, searching his face.
"I thought you were dead," he muttered. "When the caravan got hit… I thought—I looked for you."
Ren's mind raced.
Caravan. Ambush. Dead. Okay. That's how the original Ren died.
The boy didn't cry. Didn't smile. Just watched him with an intensity that pinned Ren in place.
"I—I don't remember much," Ren said carefully. "Head's still... messed up."
A pause. Then the boy sat back on his heels, exhaling.
"Figures. You always were stupid enough to get your skull cracked."
Ren blinked.
The boy leaned against a tent pole, resting his bruised cheek against it. "I'm Taro. In case your dumbass brain forgot that too."
Taro. Not overly friendly. Not too warm. But real. The kind of kid who probably punched his best friend for stealing food and then shared his blanket five minutes later.
Ren nodded slowly. "I remember... some things."
Taro grunted. "You don't have to lie. You've got that look—like you're here, but not all the way."
Ren glanced down. "Is it that obvious?"
"You're quieter than usual. And you haven't made a single bad joke since I walked in. That's not the Ren I knew."
That stung. But it also helped.
Taro knew the original Ren. Not everyone. Not the whole camp. Just Taro.
Ren hesitated, then asked, "We were close?"
Taro shrugged one shoulder. "You and me. And the twins. We stuck together. You remember them?"
Ren shook his head. "I don't think so."
Taro's expression darkened, just a little.
"Rei and Kaoru. They were always glued to your side. Orphanage brats like us. You three were idiots together."
Ren's breath caught.
They're dead, then.
It was obvious. The way Taro spoke—flat, not cold, just distant. Like the pain had sunk so deep, it didn't have edges anymore.
"They didn't make it?" Ren asked softly.
"No," Taro said, eyes fixed on the canvas wall. "Died in the first raid. The one before the caravan. You… you were the only one left."
Ren closed his eyes.
That explained everything. Why no one else knew him well. Why no one questioned his silence. Why Taro hadn't tried to hug him or cry or press for answers.
Because everyone had already lost so much.
No one had the energy to doubt miracles.
"I'm sorry," Ren said, and for once, he meant it more than anything.
Taro didn't respond right away. Just let the silence stretch.
Then he stood. "Get some rest. You look like hell."
Before he ducked back out of the tent, he added, "You ever remember who you are, I'll be around."
---
That night, Ren lay on his side, curled beneath his blanket, staring at the flickering lanternlight on the tent ceiling.
Rei and Kaoru.
He didn't know them. Not really. But the pain Taro didn't say out loud said enough. And now they were his memories to carry—because no one else would.
Part of him felt relieved. The real Ren had been private. Close only to those two. It meant Ren didn't have to fake it with anyone else. No forced smiles. No fake names. Just silence, and distance, and time.
But I owe them. All three of them. Taro's still here. The other two aren't. I can't waste this life.
The war wasn't slowing down. If anything, it was picking up steam. He'd heard whispers in the medic tent—rumors about Iwa's push into Grass, about a yellow blur tearing through enemy lines.
Ren knew who that was.
Minato. The Yellow Flash. Still alive. Still in his prime.
He could see the timeline now, laid out like dominoes. Kakashi's trauma. Obito's "death." Rin's kidnapping. The foundation of Akatsuki forming in the rubble of peace talks. So many things spiraling from a few critical moments.
He couldn't change everything. He wasn't a ninja. Not yet. But he could start small.
Information is power. I know the future. That means I have a head start.
He pulled the blanket tighter and turned on his side.
Taro hadn't pressed him. That was good. But he had seen something was off. Sooner or later, others might too. Ren needed to blend in—not just survive, but belong.
Tomorrow, he'd start watching. Learning. Figuring out how chakra worked. Where the shinobi trained. What gaps he could slip through.
He wasn't strong. Not yet.
But he had time.
And he had no intention of wasting it.